Fall makes way for colder days, devouring the sun in its cool indifference. November mornings and the first frost, the days burning fury fading now, sky to shades of blue and grey. The white hot air of summer gives way - reluctantly - to the grey clouds rolling in from north and west, all heavy laden with that life giving rain, hail, lightning, thunder, darkness. Under cold blue northern winds, the leaves begin to turn and fall, heaping into piles at the feet of trees and in the gutters, sidewalks, drains. The fields, burnt brown and stiff from summer air, all spring to life with brambles, tangled vines and all the little flowers soon to be frozen in the crisp night air. And the wind blows cold across the land tonight in northern Texas, and in their rooms the children dream of still too distant snowmen, and the parents guard their hearts against that fear of coughing, fever, chills, and winters deadly grasp.

Once a thought has been thunk?

If only there were nicer ways to say those little things, those things that I would love to say but don't for fear of divine retribution. It is with this lightning bolt from on high fear drifting in the back of my mind that I sit and bite my tounge while all those people walk on by with their thoughts like nails on chalkboard SCREAMING out for comment, change, revenge.

In light of all this facist non-sense about thought policing and all that jazz that surely he cannot be talking about........
......an Orwellian future framed in Orson Wellsian deep focus ( all things at all times come clearly into view.......oh really?) ......

Can he mean these things he thinks aloud to no one but himself?
Can words be true when stored upon that wooden shelf?